MORE REMINISCENCES

By

META SCHOOLEY LAWS

             In the early spring, before other flowers of its kind blooms, though planted in well-cared for gardens, a clump of daffodils show bright golden at the edge of the ridge which forms a part of Pine Hill Farm, on the Chippawa Road, near the Overholt cemetery.

             An old disused well, and a straggling bush or two remain too-these marking the spot to which Solomon Steele brought his bride in Humberstone’s pioneer times-before the county was organized as now.

             Remains of the big stone oven were there too, when as children we played in the woods on our occasional visits.

             Solomon Steele had three sons, one who died in early manhood; Jonas, who kept a store at what is now Ridgeville, then Steele’s Corners; and William, who lived on the homestead.

             There were two daughters, Miranda, who became the wife of Charles Carter, and Mary Ann, an early-day teacher.

             William Steele was in his younger days quite prominent in the life of the community. A quiet retiring man of sterling integrity. His wife was Lavinia Schooley of Maple Grove Farms.

             He built the house, which is still as plumb as when it was built some sixty odd years ago.

             An active, useful life seemed opening before him, but it was ordered otherwise, for a disease which baffled the medical skill of his day seized him. With mental health unimpaired he gradually lost the use of limbs. I can still see him as I write, a powerfully built man, tall and broad shouldered, and until the last few years sitting erect with evident effort in the wheeled chair to which his illness chained him.

             For nineteen long years his wife fed him, for his sinewy arms were powerless. A platform was built from the north door to the top of the picket fence which enclosed the yard, and every fine afternoon old Alexander, his faithful servant, drove old Dick and the phaeton up and Uncle William was lifted into it and taken for a drive; sometimes to the other farm, sometimes on township business; sometimes to call at the door of an old friend.

             His mother lived in the old house with Mary Ann, who cared for her despite the fact the disease which attacked her brother, marked her too for its victim. She went round the house on her hands and knees after she could no longer work, and did not lose the use of her hands until shortly before her death. She was of a literary turn, and some of the verses she composed may still be in the possession of some member of the family. I have read them-pathetic, brave words voicing hope and disappointment, of love of Nature, or in one of them, seeking half blindly for the solution of the problem of human suffering.

             William Steele had no family, though an orphan niece and nephew made their childhood’s home there. But the merry laugh of childhood could never seem to drive away for one moment the cloud which hung over the home-and we always ran to the beautiful pine woods as soon as the greetings were over. There we felt free, and though I never remember being forbidden to play indoors, I have no recollection of a single joyous moment. The very air seemed heavy with resignation to weakness and uselessness on uncle’s part, and ceaseless, unremitting thought for him on auntie’s.

             The last visit stands out so clearly though long years have elapsed. The daily rides had been given up. The wheeled chair stood empty. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he would say with a sigh. Brother and I tiptoed into the room where he lay, and to my father he said, “The end of the road is in sight; it will be a release to me and to her.” (William: 28 February 1879).

             For many years his faithful wife outlived him, but the habit of years was hard to break. Seldom indeed did she leave her home. The books she had read to uncle, the topics in which he had been interested still filled her life. Every expressed wish of his was sacred to her always. When she passed on we could not sorrow, for she had again-who shall gainsay-her heart’s desire.

             On part of the old farm groups of merry children hold high carnival. But each succeeding year the golden daffodils speak to us who can understand their language of hope and cheer and enduring achievement, despite frost and storm and all the untoward circumstances which seem to encompass some lives-and give rise to “Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”

The Welland Tribune and Telegraph

24 August 1926